


overflow

by visiblemarket



Series: Tumblr Prompts [13]
Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Back rubs, Hair Washing, M/M, SO many insecurities could be resolved just by having an adult discussion but, accent talk, is this an established relationship? we also don't know, is this fluff? we just don't know, it's about the intimacy.jpg, no, will they be?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-03 13:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21179954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: "You're not going to get in, right?"John has to laugh. "No, I'm not going to get in," he drawls. “’s a bloody miracle the bath can fityou."And for all John knows, it is: gets the feeling it was smaller, once, but that’s the trouble with a semi-magical house: you can never really be sure.





	overflow

**Author's Note:**

> the #Summer of Id Fic continues _well_ into fall

He knocks on the door.

“What?” Chas calls, and John takes that as permission enough to twist the knob and stick his head in. 

"Oi," he says, making something of a show of covering his eyes with his other hand. "Mind if I step in and use the loo?"

Water sloshes as Chas shifts, presumably, and then a familiar sort of sigh. "No, I don't mind."

"Ta," John says, slipping inside. Shuts the door behind him and does his business, back turned to Chas. 

"Wash your hands,” he hears Chas say as he zips up.

“Oh, thanks, mate, never would've thought of that,” he mutters, as he steps to the sink and rolls up his sleeves. Turns on the tap and washes his hands with the lemon-scented soap Chas put there; dries them with one of the soft grey towels Chas bought. Finds himself looking in the mirror as he does.

His own face — tired, grey, due for a shave — holds no particular interest but he can see Chas, from here: arms braced on the edge of the bathtub, head lolling back, hair fluttering as he shifts. His eyes are closed, but he’s not sleeping. Seems surprisingly tense, truth be told, for a man apparently luxuriating in a full tub.

“What?” Chas says, somehow knowing — without opening his eyes — that John is looking at him.

John turns around, and approaches. Keeps his sleeves rolled up, and reaches down to pick up a stepping stool on the way over — another of Chas’s touches, there in case John or Zed had to reach anything he'd stored away on a top shelf when he wasn’t there to retrieve it himself. 

John drops it by the side of the tub and sits down — he’s lower than he’d like to be, not quite at face level with Chas. He’s used to that, of course, but it’s always nice to be able to look a man in the eye.

“What’s this, then?”

Chas sighs and lifts his head. “What’s what?"

"Never one to sit around in a bath, I mean. Especially not one that's...purple?" And sparkling, opaque, smelling expansively floral and vaguely of vanilla. John warily eyes the basket of bathing supplies hooked on the side of the tub, trying to work out the culprit, but spots only the usual suspects. 

"It's a bath bomb,” Chas offers, perhaps a little sheepishly — doesn’t quite meet John’s eye, at least.

"A what?"

Chas sighs. "It's supposed to relax me."

“Is it working?”

“Not right now," Chas says, pointed but mostly joking.

John snorts. “Right. Well. I know something else that'd relax you."

Chas looks over at him. "Oh yeah? What?"

“Alcohol,” John points out, with a grin, as Chas groans and lets his head fall back again. “'s always worked for me, I mean, I could get you some-- somethin’ appropriate to the situation, eh? Nice mimosa? Some _champagne_?” he enunciates, as pretentiously as he can.

“Could leave me alone,” Chas grumbles, but under his breath — doesn’t mean it, or so John thinks. Hopes.

“Could do,” John concedes, as he scoots the stool over and around the tub, till he's behind Chas's head. "Sit up a bit."

"Why?" Chas says, instantly wary — shoulders pinching —but shifts anyway, broad bare back rising from the murky purple depths, sweet-scented water running down the smooth expanse of skin. John's breathless, dry-mouthed reverie is interrupted by the object of his admiration turning his head and fixing John with a deeply suspicious look. "You're not going to get in, right?"

John has to laugh. "No, I'm not going to _get in_," he drawls. “’s a bloody miracle the bath can fit _you_."

And for all John knows, it is: gets the feeling it was smaller, once, but that’s the trouble with a semi-magical house: you can never really be sure.

“Something like that,” Chas says, with an uneasy chuckle, as he turns around again. 

“Hm?”

“Measured it before I got in,” he says, playing at matter-of-fact, though his usual undercurrent of unease when it comes to anything magical bleeds through. "Knees should be up by my chin right now.”

They’re not — his kneecaps are just peeking out from the surface, with apparent space to spare for his legs to stretch out in front of him.

John could fit, if he wanted to.

He reaches out instead: carefully, just barely running his fingertips over Chas’s shoulder, but Chas winces. 

“Relax,” John says, entirely aware of how unhelpful that can be to hear. Tries to mean it as much as he can, as he begins to rub Chas’s shoulders — pressing his thumbs into the taut muscles, running his fingertips over the smooth wet skin. “Christ, you _are_ tense.”

Chas gives a tired sigh. "Long day," he concedes.

Long year, more like, but he'd never say so.

“Not to worry, mate,” John says, overly bright. “Been told I’ve got — quite talented hands. Some might even say —“

“Don’t — “

“They’re _magical_,” John finishes, with a grin, and Chas groans — partly from the joke, probably, but also because John’s digging his fingers into the tight muscles along his spine. He arches his back, into John’s hands, and John can’t help himself: leans forward, and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck.

Pulls back, before Chas can say anything. “Sorry,” he offers, without quite knowing why, and gets back to it — the paths of his hands eased by the water and the soap, which has left Chas’s skin soft and smooth to the touch. Chas bears it almost silently, breaths quickening then evening out, as the tension in his body begins — slowly, warily, almost reluctantly — to melt away. 

John slips his hand up Chas’s spine again, lets it drift into Chas’s hair. Chas turns his head a little, throws him a narrow-eyed glance. John knows that look: _what are you up to?_, it says, all on its own. 

John shrugs; it’s as good an answer as Chas ever gets out of him, and they both know it.

Chas turns around again. 

“Lean back,” John says, forcing casual cheer, and Chas complies, hands gripping the sides of the tub for balance as he does. John cups the sweet smelling and strangely warm water in his hands, and lets it fall through Chas’s hair. 

Chas’s hair is thick and longer than John’s seen it for a while, probably due for a cut, and requires more than a few handfuls of water to get properly wet. John runs his fingers through it once he’s done, once Chas's curls are clinging to the nape of his neck. It’s like wet silk between his fingers. 

Chas shakes his head, scattering droplets of water onto John’s face; John snorts and pulls his hands back, reaching for the bottle of shampoo. 

He flips open the lid and is hit by a wave of scent — concentrated and overwhelming, the crisp, familiar scent that lingers in Chas’s hair. His cock twitches, stirred by the memory of Chas inside him and above him, driving into John, panting into the side of his neck, letting John bury his nose in his hair. 

“John?”

John blinks. “Sorry,” he says, soft, and squeezes some shampoo into the palm of his hand. Warms it between his hands, and slides them through Chas’s hair. Scrubs his fingernails along Chas’s scalp, starting at the front of his head and working his way back, building up a steady lather through the waves of dark hair. 

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Why not?” John says — a sharp, automatic challenge — and then, realizing Chas might actually answer, rushes to add: “Lean back again?”

Chas does, all the way back, till his head’s half in the water, and shrugs. “I just. Don’t think anyone’s ever washed my hair before,” he murmurs, and then blinks. “I mean, that I remember.”

“Me neither,” John says, which is a lie — Chas himself has done it, once or twice, when John was shell-shocked and blood-soaked. John shakes his head, running his hand through Chas’s hair again, chasing out the last few silky bubbles. Chas keeps still, tacitly ignoring the quiver of John’s hands as he rinses out the lather. “First time for everything,” he says, and gives Chas a light pat on the shoulder. “Up." 

Chas sits, sending the water in the tub sloshing, and runs his own hand through his hair, pushing rivulets of water down his back. Turns toward John. “I’m gonna need to—"

John kisses him — long and deep, bracing an arm on the edge of the tub as he leans in. Chas is impossible warm and welcoming and quick to respond, twisting to be able to meet John as close to head on as he can. 

He frowns when John pulls away, and blinks. 

“What was that for?” he says, low, and John ducks his head, doing his best to hide his automatic smirk at the Chas's quick breaths and wet lips.

“Dunno," he says, because the real answer wouldn't do him any favors. "Liked the look of you, like this."

Chas rolls his eyes even as he blushes and drops his gaze, turning around again. “Is that…is that right?” he says, clearly trying for coy, but it sounds — nervous and strangely shy. John shifts the stool over, till he’s perpendicular to Chas’s body, and can brace both arms on the side of the tub. Rests his chin on the intersection of his wrists.

“It is,” John says. Chas’s chest is pink beneath his tattoo — embarrassed by the attention, or flushed from the heat of the water, or both. John wants to touch him, and does: presses his palm against Chas’s heart, feels the steady pace quicken at the contact. “You must know,” he says, matter of fact, though he suspects Chas doesn’t. Lets his hand slide a little lower.

Testing the waters, like. 

Chas takes a deep breath. “Know what?"

“Effect you have on me. Effect you have on a lot of people.”

Chas flushes even brighter red, and squirms a little. Shakes his head, even as John leans over again, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. 

“I— I don’t, not like — like you do.”

John shrugs. He’s not unaware of his appeal — the world’s your bloody oyster, when you’re blond and white and even _slightly_ handsome. John’s got little else to recommend him and he’s never been above taking advantage, using whatever he can when it comes to gaining trust and favor. 

“’s about confidence, mate. That’s all.”

“Accent doesn’t hurt.”

John laughs into Chas’s shoulder. “Not on this side of the pond at least.” Looks at Chas again. “I like yours, anyway. Like when it goes all — New Yawk.”

Chas snorts and slaps his hand down on the water, splashing John across the chest. “_Brooklyn_.”

“Brooklyn’s in New York.”

“Barely,” Chas says. “And I don’t — don’t sound like that.”

He had when they’d met — not always but sometimes, like something out of a movie: it’d come out acerbic and swift, though back then his tendency had been toward rare and barely comprehensible s_otto voce_ asides. 

(_You talkin’ to me?_, John’d teased, once, in the early days, and gotten a smack to the back of his head for his troubles.)

It’s faded, since then: time and travel and — John imagines, petty to last — Renee, a child of the Upper East Side, have long since worn any edges down to a mild, middle class rumble. But sometimes, still, when Chas is drunk — on nostalgia or booze or both — it’ll come out. Dropped r’s, elongated vowels, the sharp, sure rhythm of his past. 

The thought of it makes John smile, and he leans over. Chas is ready for him this time, wraps a hand around the back of John’s neck and hauls him in. 

It’s a good kiss. But then, Chas is a good kisser and always has been, for at least as John’s known him. He’s usually tender and thorough about it, thoughtful without becoming overly cautious. Sometimes, with effort, he can be baited into outright abandon; John’s not about to do so tonight. 

John pulls back, and Chas stays put, eyes closed and lips still parted.

A moment passes.

“You're in a mood," Chas declares, as if John isn’t always.

“Am I, then?” 

Chas opens his eyes to searches John’s features: green eyes sharper than usual, for all the effort John’s made to settle him, to help him wind down. Should’ve just gone with a beer and a handjob, in the end, could've saved himself the trouble. John has to duck his head, eventually, too afraid of what Chas might spot if he lets him keep looking. 

"Just thinkin', mate,” he offers, and hopes that'll be enough. 

Chas makes a soft, surprised sort of sound. "About what?” he coaxes, and John has to resist the urge to roll his eyes, not that Chas’ll see him if he does.

"How lucky I am.” Another lie, of course: he isn't lucky and never has been. What he is is greedy, and selfish, and always willing to take — to take, and not what he needs, not even what he wants, sometimes. Whatever he can get, and use, and leave behind.

"I don't deserve you," he adds; it seems the right thing to say. Might even be true, in terms of broad cosmic balance.

John glances up again, and Chas is frowning. He wraps his hand around the back of John’s neck again, and pulls him closer, just enough to press their foreheads together. 

“John,” he says, low, almost desperate. Seems about to continue — takes a breath, even, as if trying to prepare himself — but the seconds stretch on and words don’t come. He gives the back of John's neck a quick, comforting squeeze instead, then lets go. 

"I need to rinse off.”

John blinks.

“Oh,” he says, going to stand. "Oh, right. Right, yeah, leave you to it, then."

"You could," says Chas, slowly. "Or you could," he nods — whether to himself or at John, John can’t quite tell — and then rushes out: "You could join me. “

John stare at him for a moment. “Join you?”

“I mean. While I — “ Chas groans again, and covers his face with one hand. "Just get in."

John lets out an embarrassingly relieved, involuntarily giddy huff of laughter. “Well," he says with a grin. “Well, due for a good hair washin' of me own, aren’t I?”

“Just take your damn clothes off _first_,” Chas says, fond smile belying his effort at mock-exasperation.

"Whatever you say, chief," John says, and goes to undo his tie.

*

**Author's Note:**

> [anyway](https://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/186565471541/morethanonepage-relationship-advice).


End file.
